


The Mime's Ambition.

by JustACapybara



Category: Homestuck
Genre: ... - Freeform, Self-Harm, boy i gotta get to making that Ubersreik Five fic don't I, but that means reading Warhammer End Times lore, even more fun!, exploring a character's mind is fun!, exploring a weird and psychotic obsessive downright manic worshipper's mind?, i mean Kurloz did y'know do that thing with his tongue and lips, this was just an attempt at making a homestuck fic ngl and well, yeah uh HEAVY warning for self harm, yikes imagine liking the end times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24593458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustACapybara/pseuds/JustACapybara
Summary: Lips sewed shut, tongue chewed out, fingers still perfectly useable. A painful smile tries to creep up his face, but the only things that can move are the empty, hollow eyes that speak of undeath. He taps the small podium in front of him with a baton he found, getting ready for his orchestra.
Relationships: Meulin Leijon/Kurloz Makara
Kudos: 6





	The Mime's Ambition.

This was not the music of Beforus. He knew.

This was...

This was more.

He was not naturally gifted with the arts. He was a bad poet and a bad writer by all accounts, frustratingly so. While the words echoed in his head with such pristine grace it would make the tears run trails and ruin his make-up, which is why he tried to distract himself from those thoughts of beauty with pain. Pain on others or himself; it mattered not. So long as the beauty stopped. Meulin alleviated the burden, in whatever small portion she could. Just by existing, in fact.

The olive-blood was one of the few things that could distract him other than overwhelmingly negative emotions. She was beautiful. Like a piece of heaven, the unparalleled beauty of his daydreams was given form. She... she made him feel...

Well, he didn't hate her.

It was hard, being so perfect. Knowing the end, knowing what will happen, knowing who you are, knowing that your destiny is one of such divine bliss that it would make even the two murderous, mirthful messiahs clink bottles for their servant's work. Maybe not this him. He was, after all, dead. But Aranea went on and on and on about 'timelines' and 'alphas' and 'betas' and 'bluh look at me I AM BEGGING TO BE KILLED WHILE I SPEAK SHUT ME UP I AM NOTHING BUT A HERETIC THAT THINKS I KNOW MORE THAN MY SUPERIORS' that he could barely stand to hear it half the time. But, he did. And so he planned. Even got his little Leijon to work on his little project. Hopefully, the project that would make all those beautiful things true.

After such a long, long time, he allowed himself to weep again.

Weeping with joy.

He was dead. The tears were pristine as crystals, and no light reflected. Like frail, ghostly fingers dragging down his cheeks, tracing a trail of destruction upon the pained yet blissful face that it belonged to.

Alone. All alone. In their school's auditorium. The others were reliving stuff in their own favorite little memories but he always liked the auditorium in particular. Sure, usually it was used for people to talk. Move their mouths.

A slight hurdle that he was currently unable to overcome for a multitude of reasons.

But he needed not to speak. He needed only to listen.

He tapped the baton again.

While crossing another Dream Bubble's path, he heard it, faint, in the distance. The faintest hint of a melody that shook him to his very core in a way even the loneliest nights with the only thing in this universe that made him feel remotely cared for would shudder when compared to.

He knew not the words, he did not have them. His Messiahs were mirthful, why, that's what they were to be called, that's what they were, there was no other way to describe them. But this... wonderful? Amazing? Insane? Incredible? What adjectives could be attached to it and not be painfully inadequate? His blood boiled. He had no tongue to bite until it bled its viscous purple anymore, so his cheeks would have to do. It was both a mercy and a punishment that he was dead now, for while he could not literally tear his cheek off in any way that matter, the pain was oh so dull. Oh, so, so dull...

He tapped the podium with the baton again. Once, twice, thrice.

A deep breath.

It had begun. In his head, so clear, the crescendo that would lead to the song, the merciful melody to calm the raging storm that howled inside of him and gnawed on every fiber of his being!

Hands raised, fingers stretching out in a gradual motion, his eyes closing as the tears kept pouring and the song began, as chaotically composed as it could ever be. Bliss.

Bliss.

The melody carved its harrowing path through every cell of his body, sending shivers down his spine, weakening his legs, making his fingers tremble as he stood on the tip of his toes like an earthling Ballerina, arms stretched so far towards the ceiling he felt physical pain, but it was here. Bliss.

In one swift motion, he pulled down, slamming his feet back on the ground. Arms outstretched and curving as if he was trying to hug something many times his size, reaching his hands closer together until he could pass the baton on.

Feet tapped rhythmically and feverishly on the ground as if he had been born with that divine yet completely alien melody. He jumped, jumped and leaped and stretched his legs far enough that he could hear his hip dislodge and his knees snap as his legs twisted.

Arms stretching, bending, twisting, and turning in such manners that if alive, his body would have been broken long ago.

But dead?

Dead he could hear his tendons snapping and muscles getting ruined, he could hear it all. He could hear how it added to the cacophony of profane voices writhing in pain, he could hear how the maddeningly loud instrumental shook his heart, the building, the very universe's foundations to their most primal core. He was being possessed and used as an instrument of his Messiah's words, he was the horn that honked and the unicycle that wheeled. He was the mirthful drink and the blissful pink. He had ascended.

But no, no, of course such beauty could not last forever. Of course he could not be dragged from the pit of sinners that clawed at him with jealous eyes, and maybe finally convert the one thing that even remotely mattered in that tattered rag of leather that he claimed to be a heart, so they could both ride the merry-go-rounds and honk their rightful horns as good servants.

Steps. The world outside of his head, as always, came to intervene. It always did. It would until he was granted release. Until his job was done and the Lord crowned. The melody collapsed. The screams stopped lining up with each other, the crackle of bones and the millions of horns fell short. Even the great and loud drums, made of skinned aliens that his people were so keen on trying to understand and befriend, ripped and fell apart. The beautiful melody he was granted, broken, gone, lost. Fundamentally destroyed. He had but a glimpse of what was to come, and again, again, AGAIN IT ALL FELL APART!

He threw the baton away, behind the curtains, and looked to the door expectantly, pretending to play shadow puppets with the light.

To his delight and to pain his raging heart, Meulin walked in, smile bright as ever, skipping with every step and happily signaling her most sickly sweet 'I <3 U!' gifs she could. He sent them right back, of course, before sitting on the ledge, digging his nails into his palms where a thousand scars were found.

" \\(^≗ω≗^)/ WE'RE GOING TO THE BEACH! WE JUST FOUND A BEACHY BEACH!" Her head bobbed from side to side as she motioned with her fingers the torrent of words, her eyes closed, and a smile of glee as she basked in the presence of someone she loved in hearts. Though golly, she loved her moirails too! " (^つωฅ^) YOU DON'T HAVE TO SWIM BUT WANNA JOIN US??? I WON'T SWIM IF YOU WON'T PURRY PURRMISE!"

He could not be mad. He was cruel. He enjoyed that, too. It was good. It was very good. Something he found rather lacking in that heart of hers despite the incessant use of chucklevoodos to try and make something - anything resembling his image. He failed, of course, but she was still useful despite that. 

Though... if the world where his Successor grew up was as it was described to him then maybe, just maybe, the person who she is there would be better. He wouldn't know what to do if she was. Be proud? Cull her? Kill her on the spot for trying to one-up her own ancestor? NO, thoughts, thoughts, thoughts. Each thought led to a thousand more. No longer!

After a brief moment of stillness between the two and his charismatic smile nearly fading into a frown, he nodded and got up, giving her whatever could pass for a smirk of confidence. He didn't need words to say yes. Not to her, at least.

To the beach, then. Maybe he could strain his ears for another melody. Another attempt to try and steal peace and respite to his accursed mind.

Or he could just kick Cronus into the tide for trying to get him to be unfaithful - again.

Either worked.

And as long as Meulin was there...

He could have the closest thing to peace he could ever honk for in this accursed afterlife.


End file.
